4

1.

'Ruth'. He kneels down in front of her, hand stretched out. 'Ruth', he repeats softly, 'give me the gun.' She doesn't seem to have heard him. 'Give me the gun', he repeats more firmly. She doesn't move, as if frozen by an invisible force. So he takes the gun from her, in one slow, smooth movement, and quickly ejects the charger. He hands the weapon over to Ros, who he instinctively knows is at his side, his eyes never leaving Ruth's face. 'There's a car waiting to take us back to the Grid', he continues, in the same low, soothing voice. 'You'll need to be debriefed. And then…'

'I killed him', she breaks in tonelessly.

'Yes. You did.'

'I mean, I actually killed a man.'

Her voice – flat, devoid of emotion – worries him. 'Yes. You did. Ruth…' On an impulse he grabs her hands. 'Look at me'. She stares at him blankly, pupils dilated with shock. 'You saved my life, Ruth. And Ros' too. Without you…' His voice breaks but he forces himself to remain calm, composed, and collected. 'Come on, let's go', he commands. She gets up slowly, like an automaton, and lets him lead her to the waiting car. He signals to Ros to come with them, all the while holding on to Ruth, hoping to inject some warmth and strength into her. At Thames House he sits with her throughout the debriefing – his heart constricting at her recounting of the terrible events of that day: the tip they had about a white supremacist cell's plan to assassinate the head of a Muslim state, the hastily organised storming of their hide-out, Harry and Ros taking the lead, Ruth gripped with a sudden intuition that they were walking into a trap and following them there despite Harry's strict orders to stay on the Grid, the gunfight, Ruth grabbing a weapon abandonned on the floor and firing shot after shot after shot….She tells the fact, without emotions, in a flat, matter-of fact way, which is belied by her obviously trembling fingers.

After the debriefing, they walk back to the Grid, Harry and Ros going over what is to be done next, Ruth next to them, unable to utter a word. As Ros leaves them in his office, he turns to Ruth, gesturing to the sofa. 'Ruth. Sit down'. She looks up. 'Do you want to talk about it?', he asks kindly, groping for a way to reach to her and break through her defences. She shakes her head almost violently. 'No. No. I don't. I….Could I possibly go home now? An early night and….I'll be fine. I'll take a cab and….'

'No way', he says more sharply than he intended. 'I'll drive you back.' She's about to speak and he raises his hand. 'That's not up for discussion, Ruth.' She rises obediently, her body language mechanical, almost robotic, as they make their way to his car. She doesn't say anything as she settles in; she remains utterly silent as the dark rainy streets of London file through the car window; he can feel the tension in her, palpable, a torrent of controlled emotions which she will not allow to run and break through. He knows, for having been through this himself, that the walls, sooner or later will crumble down, and he'd much rather be there when it happens to her.

So he follows her inside as she fumbingly opens the door to her drab safe house. He hasn't been here once since she moved in, all those months ago, and his heart sags at the sight of the blank walls and cheap furniture. 'I'll make you some tea', he says, in as light-hearted a tone as he can muster. Briefly he remembers that moment, long ago, when he made her some tea, the day before she had to disappear…he forces his hands to do their job without slowing down. He hopes that she doesn't remember. He looks at her and frowns. 'Ruth. Are you not…are you not going to take off your coat?'

'My coat?' Ah, yes. Sorry. I was…' She shrugs out of the garnment and leads them to the living room. She sits as far away from him as she can, clutching her mug of hot, sweet tea with both hands. Silence sets in, long, tense, awful really. Somehow he has to break her, in order to help her to rebuild her shattered sense of self, but he doesn't know how to. With any other field officer, he would do it. But with her, so close and yet so far, when they are still in a limbo of will they/won't they….

But she preempts him. 'I'd never thought of myself as someone who could kill another person', she says unemotionally. 'I mean, I had to go through basic fire arm training but…being a desk agent I never thought I would….'

'What did you feel?' He asks gently. She stares at him blankly. 'When you saw the gun lying on the ground. When you saw Ros and me being….attacked. What made you do it?' He knows, from experience, that she has no choice but to relive the scene to purge herself from it, and he would like nothing more than hold her in his arms while she does that, but he knows he can't do that.

She turns away from him. How can she possibly tell him what she felt, when she saw him, yet again, at the mercy of yet another aspiring terrorist…how can she possibly describe the sheer terror of losing him, of watching him die….how can she explain how eerily similar the vision of his potential death was to the actual vision of George's collapsing on the ground….'I didn't think. I don't know how I felt', she lies, unconvincing to her own ears.

'Ruth…'

But his kindness is more than she can bear. 'Please Harry….I can't talk about it…'s different from you…you've done this many times. You can deal with its aftermath. But me…..' She begins to shake. In one quick, smooth move, he crosses the room and sits next to her on the sofa, his hands on her shoulders. 'I have a confession to make', he tells her in a low voice. 'Something about me…something which I know you won't like.' He takes a deep breath. 'Two years ago….I was in the underground. Someone was following me, and I knew him to be a hired assassin. I also knew he was out to get me. I lured him into a gents toilet….and I killed him.' She stiffens under his hands, but doesn't move away, just looks at his face, his eyes, his mouth. He continues, painfully, 'I didn't kill him in the heat of the moment, but in cold blood. Preemptively. And afterwards, I boarded the train, and went to work. To anyone, Ros, the DG whom I saw that morning, Malcolm….to all of them, I seemed calm, in control. Ruthless. But that night…and many other nights after that…I had nightmares. I couldn't sleep.' He gives her a wry, sad smile. 'One never gets used to it, Ruth, however awful the target, however entitled one is to defend one's life. Never. Not unless one is a psychopath.'

She rest her hand on his wrists, aware of the warmth and solid softness of his fingers on her shoulders, of how close they are, of the delicate and sensitive line of his mouth, of the ragged sound of their breaths. 'Stay with me tonight, Harry', she asks, astounded with herself. 'Please… I don't want to be alone. I don't want to think of death or…'. She looks away. I want you, she wants to say, I need you to hold me, and I need to feel that you care, I'm tired of lying to myself, and pretending that there's nothing between us…tonight of all nights…I need to feel you against me, in me…to know that you are alive, and that you love me….And yet she can't bring herself to saying it. 'I don't want to sleep alone', she says instead.

His eyes widen, searching hers to make sure that he fully understands what she is asking. And he sees no uncertainty there, no hesitation; what he sees, he thinks, is the desperate need for a human touch, any touch, at any price. He knows that look, for having seen it so many times in the mirror after a kill. 'You don't know what you are asking for', he says flatly, more incisively than he would have liked.

'I do!', she protests, any remnant of dignity crushed under the weight of her solitude and of her need for him.

'No you don't', he says harshly. 'I know what it's like….God knows. In my younger days, especially after my divorce….I'd go to bars. Brothels. Anywhere I could find a woman, any woman, to make me feel alive, to make me forget.' She jerks away from him, aghast as his bluntless. 'But it's not…it's you I…'

'No, it's not', he counters. 'It's….call it whatever you want. Adrenaline. Wanting to prove that you are alive. That there is more to life than death….I fully understand, and God knows I am in no position whatsoever to make any judgement. But what I also know is that afterwards….you feel awful. Disgusted with yourself, with whomever you ended up bedding for the night….And I won't be party to that anymore, Ruth. Not with anyone. Especially not with you', he adds under his breath, willing her to read the respect and the love underneath the rejection.

Her face drains itself of its colour. That he should misjudge her so badly….She rises from the sofa and moves to the window, as far from him as possible. 'I'm sorry', she says stiffly, desperately trying to hold on to her self-control. 'I don't know what came over me. You're right. It's….anyway, you'd better go. I'll be fine anyway.'

Watching her compose herself, he is overcome by the dreadful feeling that he may have got it totally, completely wrong. 'Ruth, I….'

'Please, Harry. I'm very tired and…I need to be alone right now.' From saying you want him to saying you want to be alone, in 2 mns flat…well done Ruth, very convincing….she berates herself.

He hesitates. 'If you're sure…'

'I'm sure', she states clearly, firmly this time, with no trace of doubt in her voice.

He gets up and makes his way to the door. 'I didn't thank you properly', he says haltingly, his hand on the door handle. 'For saving my life…'

'It's nothing Harry', she dismisses him. 'I'd have done the same for anyone else. And so would you, so please don't mention it.' And go, please go, she begs him inwardly.

She shuts the door behind him and listens to the fading sound of his footsteps, of the car engine rumbling away, of the clear, cold night….sliding down on the floor, her back against the wall, a knot of pain twisting her guts, her eyes utterly dry.